


Gifted

by ImpOfPerversity



Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-17
Updated: 2005-06-17
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: A present for Sparrow.





	Gifted

Jack Shaftoe had become quite accustomed to wandering the streets -- cobbled or paved or mere dirt, all of 'em tipped and swayed underfoot -- of ports so exotic that he'd never heard their names. Jack couldn't, in fact, have pointed to them on any map, were it not for Jack Sparrow, who (ever eager to advance Jack's education in every way he could) would sit with him, a fine-inked chart spread before them on the table, and describe with his finger the course of the _Black Pearl_ since last they'd made landfall. Jack liked these hours, as much for the comfortable closeness between them as for the sense of motion, vastness, distance from the muddy chill of East London. He liked to lean back against Sparrow's warm chest as Sparrow -- one hand, always, on Jack's shoulder, ostensibly for balance -- traced a wand'ring path between intricate islands and through, or under, or past compass-roses, sea-monsters and painted galleons, from one place to another.

Jack's travels in Christendom had never taken him to any land where he could not, however haltingly, make himself understood. His French was bad, but intelligible: Sabir, the language of all rootless wanderers, was a forgiving tongue (verbalising this concept to himself, Jack could not help but think of Jack Sparrow's tongue, and smile at the frisson of memory and anticipation that accompanied any consideration of that agile, versatile organ) and Jack had always, albeit clumsily, achieved communication.

The ports of the New World were different. The further he rambled from the sea, the fewer words he recognised. Now, somewhere in a twisting alleyway halfway up a hill in some nameless Caribbean town, Jack realised that it was some time since he'd heard a single voice speaking French, or English, or even Spanish.

Almost he turned back: but this was Adventure, and while Sparrow was lounging around drinking in some tavern, negotiating (or so he claimed) with a buccaneer captain for information about the English Navy and their vaunted blockade, Jack'd been left to his own devices. Glad of it, too, for how could he want to sit with Jack Sparrow and simply listen? How could he not want Sparrow's attention focussed entirely, flatteringly, lustfully 'pon himself?

 _He's yourn, all yourn,_ piped the Imp on Jack's shoulder. _His heart's all an' only for you, JackmyJack, and ain't it a heart worth having, eh?_

Jack rolled his eyes.

 _Since when,_ he addressed his old companion silently, _have you been so very fond of stating the bleedin' obvious?_

The Imp sulked, and dug its ethereal talons into Jack's shoulder, reminding him irresistibly of Sparrow's teeth there this morning, as he'd held Jack hard and thrust --

Jack smirked again; but he needed his wits about him, walking in a strange place, and could not afford the distraction of prolonged reverie. There was a cart coming down the hill, drawn by a mule with a bad eye, and he stepped to the side of the alley, hand brushing the hilt of his sword; just in case.

There was a high-roofed building to his left, a market of sorts. He could smell spices and hot oil, musky perfumes and chicken shit. The space was cool and dark, though rackety with bargaining, and Jack's head was beginning to ache from sun and ale. He ducked past a violently-coloured awning and went in, and stood for a moment letting his eyes adjust, trusting his senses to tell him whether this was a place in which he'd be welcomed.

No one seemed especially interested in his presence. There were all kinds of folk here, dark-skinned and light, some dressed like servants and some like tradesmen. There were, oh, arrays of vegetables, or perhaps fruits, which Jack had never seen before: plump and curved, slender and tapering, glossy and warty. A woman gabbled at him from behind a pile of melons. Jack flipped her a copper coin, which she snatched from the air with reptilian speed, and reached for the topmost fruit of the pile, giving her an enquiring, raised-eyebrows look that even an idiot would understand. She gestured and gabbled in a way that Jack chose to construe as affirmative, and so -- having taken his knife to the fruit to halve it, and coincidentally demonstrated to any observers that he carried a more _convenient_ weapon than his sword -- he wandered on with melon-juice dripping from his mouth, grateful for the sweetness and the moisture: grateful, too, to've conducted his business with such efficiency.

Here was another stall, a length of sailcloth covered with glittery sea-life. Clams, all coralled with barnacles and wilting fan-worms, packed in slimy seaweed. (Must be time for another careening, thought Jack, already in tune with the seasonal round of the nautical life.) Eels coiled in scratchy straw baskets, still feebly twitching. Fish-eyes all watching Jack. He quickened his pace.

More stalls. Little carved curios; purposeless lumps of rusty metal, clearly salvaged from larger devices; tawdry beads and bright scarves. Perhaps he'd buy Jack Sparrow a present: that red bandana of his was faded and tatty, and Sparrow -- in Jack's opinion -- deserved to be decked in the most gloriously vivid colours that anyone had ever seen. What colour would suit him best? That rich crimson, perhaps; or this purple, so imperial that it made Jack think of the theatre, or those various Royal processions that he and Bob'd elbowed through close-packed crowds of sweating Londoners to see up close and personal.

He cast an eye over the goods on the next stall. Right peculiar objects, they were, all ...

Jack blushed. No, sunburn: it was sunburn.

 _Oooh!_ squealed his Imp, bouncing. _Oooh! 'Tis like that play, Jack, remember that play? Remember that song they sang, that riddly-fiddly-diddly song, eh? **You** know it, Jack, you do!_ And faintly, but clearly (though surely only for Jack's ears) the Imp began to lilt and hum a catchy, dancy melody.

Jack blushed more.

He'd seen such things before: there'd been that foreign bawdy-play, with all the blokes sporting pricks that were heroically proportioned, or improbably hued, or both. He'd seen the things in brothels of the fancier sort, too, all hung up on the wall; for inspiration, no doubt, though there were probably fellows who liked that sort of thing. (Jack shied from the extrapolation of 'that sort of thing' in any wise that touched upon his own recent experiences: sodomy, buggery and the like. Not the same sort of thing at all.) And there'd been that damned song at the play-house, so beloved of his familiar Imp: what was it again, that word? Dud-, dib- ... _dildo_ , that was it.

There was a woman behind this stall too, a wizened creature with a red scarf over her thinning hair. She grinned at Jack -- exposing an enviable set of yellowed teeth -- and jabbered at him, pointing at the, the _things_ laid out as brazenly as a maiden's paradise.

"I don't understand," said Jack clearly, raising his hands and shaking his head in what was, surely, a universal indicator of incomprehension.

But the Imp was giggling and wiggling, was whispering in his ear: _She's after all your money, Jack! She's bidding you pick and choose what you'd like best, just see'f she ain't!_

"I do _not_ \--" said Jack out loud, gritting his teeth. Christ, he was standing here like a milkmaid, gawping at the crone's lewd exhibit. Someone might spot him! (Jack peered around, but there was not a single familiar face to be seen, and no one was showing the slightest interest in the Englishman's business.)

 _O but do you think of it, JackmyJack!_ shrilled the Imp, winding its prehensile tail fondly 'round his neck. _Think of it! 'Tis a gift and again, a gift for SparrowJack! Just see what you might do with such a Thing!_

Jack's throat felt tight, and he wanted to retreat, but his legs would not obey him, and his eyes kept looking, kept _focussing_ , on the crone's wares. Slender and bulging, short and long, curved and straight, ridged, studded, simple, ornate, painted --

And maybe, just maybe, the Imp had a point. Jack thought of giving (and _giving_ ) such a thing to Jack Sparrow, and a solid heat built swiftly in his belly. Oh, fuck, yes, to give Jack Sparrow what he needed and wanted and deserved, what Jack so dearly longed to bestow upon him, but -- though he'd done his share of Improvisation -- was Anatomically Disqualified to grant anyone at all.

He moistened his lips -- narrowing his eyes at the crone as she cackled -- and leaned forward to examine the merchandise.

* * *

"There you are! Been anywhere nice?" said Sparrow, looking up from his chart and beaming at Jack.

"Here and there," said Jack evasively. "Any luck with ol' Davies?"

"Oh, aye: he reckons there's a clutch of Navy up around Nassau. But they won't be down this way for a while, and we'll be long gone by the time they hear the stories 'bout the infamous _Black Pearl_." His smile gleamed in the dim cabin. It was sunset, and time to light the lanthorn; but it was not yet lit, and Jack stared at Sparrow, all shadow and curve and darkness, and felt a quickening in the undercurrent of lust that'd been with him all day.

All day, and for days, weeks, months before that. Perhaps even before he'd first clapped eyes on Jack Sparrow in that Southwark brothel, half-undressed and fresh from a woman's bed. Ah, women! What did _they_ know of what he and Jack had, did, were?

"Anything the matter, Mr Shaftoe?" enquired Sparrow, and Jack realised that he was staring again.

 _Give it him give it give it give it!_ carolled the Imp, prancing. Jack felt (as was so often the case) powerless to resist temptation; and besides, what was the point?

"I've bought you a present," he announced, with a smile so broad that he could feel it pull at the muscles of his neck.

"Oh, you have, have you?" said Sparrow, eyes narrowing. He looked Jack up and down, and Jack could feel his Remnant swell from the simple pressure of that gaze. "I'm sure I shall enjoy ... unwrapping it," said Sparrow, unfolding himself from the chair and slinking closer to Jack.

"Oh, it's not _that_ ," said Jack, adding hastily, "though of course I've no objection whatsoever to any Unwrapping and subsequent Appreciation that you may have in mind. But, Jack, I saw it and I thought of you."

 _That_ , at least, was honest truth: and Sparrow clearly recognised it as such, for his brow furrowed a little, and he looked askance at Jack as though puzzling out a riddle.

"Is that it?" he said, gesturing at the bulky package under Jack's arm.

Jack'd been at pains to have the woman wrap the, the _Gift_ , to the point where it was no longer recognisable as anything at all. He was unclear as to the efficacy of shipboard rumour: it was well-nigh impossible to conceal his Credential from everybody, all the time, in the necessarily circumscribed environment of a ship at sea, but ... did anyone know? Had they told their mates? Was it (Jack had grown accustomed to this thought, and hardly winced) common knowledge that, in their Captain's cabin at night, it was -- to all effects and purposes -- Jack Shaftoe who was fucked, and Jack Sparrow doing the fucking? If they knew, perhaps they'd be sympathetic to his desire to turn the tables. Hell, perhaps he could've had a whip-round: the Gift had not been cheap, for Jack, his mind made up, had been determined that Sparrow should have the best.

Oh God, what if he didn't --

"That's it," said Jack, jamming the bundle more firmly beneath his arm.

"Are you going to give it to me?"

Jack swallowed at the words, echoing so very exactly his previous inflammatory thoughts. "Yes," he said thickly. "But not here, eh? Not where someone might ... spoil the moment."

"Grown Romantickal, Mr Shaftoe?" needled Sparrow; but his smile was fond. "Or are you going shy on me again?"

"I just thought you might like a little _privacy_ ," said Jack sweetly, "while I demonstrate its use."

"Use?" said Sparrow, eyebrows shooting up. "Oh, then do pray come and _demonstrate_ it to me." And he turned -- with a look over his shoulder that made sweat start hot and wet all down Jack's spine -- and headed for the little cabin where they slept.

Jack was not entirely sure of how to introduce the Gift: oh, he knew how to use it, all right -- obvious, really -- but what to say? And what if Sparrow recoiled, what if he wouldn't ... what if he thought less of Jack for bringing such a thing into their bed?

Too late now. Jack dropped the catch behind him. The deadlights were open, and the cabin deliciously cool, not having caught the heat of the afternoon sun. Sparrow was lighting the lanthorn; was stepping close to Jack, who could feel the warmth of his body, at once gentler and more deliriously fierce than mere sunshine.

"What've you got for me, then, Jack?" he murmured, raising his hands to Jack's shoulders and swaying forward to drop a dry, tantalising kiss on Jack's damp throat.

"You mightn't like it," Jack temporised.

"Ah, I'm sure I shall: just, just give it to me, eh? 'Less you'd care to give me something _else_ first."

Jack was very ready to give Sparrow everything: his kiss, his skin, his -- no, perhaps _not_ his arse, not quite yet. His Remnant pressed heavily against his breeches at the thought of turning the tables on Sparrow. He pulled the pirate closer and kissed him, a long ardent kiss, delighting in the way that Sparrow's cock, already hard, was pressing against his thigh, and eliciting further sympathetic swelling in Jack's own body.

"Let me get my jacket off," he said at last, breathing hard from the heat of the kiss and from sheer nerves. "Then ... then you can unwrap it."

Sparrow sat at one end of the cot and Jack settled himself at the other, close enough that their knees touched. He waited in an agony of impatience as Sparrow's strong fingers snapped the twine that held the bundle together, and tore at the smeared, yellowing paper that enveloped the whole. Underneath _that_ \-- Jack'd picked it more or less at random, from the next stall along -- was a length of printed cotton, all crimson and scarlet and daubed with gold. Sparrow drew it, grinning, between his two hands: it was long enough to encircle his slender waist at least twice, and he half-stood as though to wrap it about himself.

"Later," said Jack impatiently: "that's just _padding_."

Sparrow gave Jack a thoughtful look, but he bent again to the parcel, next unfolding a length of grubby sackcloth (which he let fall) and a double handful of coarse straw. Oh, she'd been thorough, that crone! And then there was another length of soft cotton, faded with age; and then (Jack leaned forward, breath catching, too caught up in the process to pretend disinterest), then, the soft gleam of tanned leather, stretched tight over a, a _shaft_ (Jack swallowed) that, judging by the weight of it when first he'd picked it up, must be carved from wood.

Sparrow looked up at Jack, quite expressionless, and Jack's stomach lurched sickly: yet the thought of the thing's Intended Function drove him on, and he said, hardly stammering, "I saw it, and I couldn't think of anything but, but ..."

"For you," said Sparrow, as though enquiring politely about which of them should sample some new vintage first, "or for me?"

"You've fucked me deep and long and hard," said Jack, low and vehement, "and driven me to ecstasies I'd never dreamt of. And I can't return the favour -- nay, though I've taken great pleasure in every act I've performed with, and for, and upon you -- but oh, Jack, I dearly long to."

"An' you reckon this, this _Device_ \--"

"It's called a _dildo_ , Jack: I know a song about --"

"-- this _dildo_ , then, will do the job, eh?"

Sparrow's tone was still cool, but Jack could not help notice that _one_ part of him, at least, was more than a little interested by the idea. And oooh, the corner of Sparrow's mouth was twitching with mischief: Jack chuckled, and Sparrow gave up on suppressing his own grin.

"I confess I'm most heartily in favour of Experimentation, Jack," he confided. "But ... "

"But ...?" coaxed Jack Shaftoe. "Trust me, Jack. Or," his smile sharpened, "if you're _nervous_ , let me have first try." For the notion of penetration, at first entirely focussed upon his phant'sy of pushing the Object slowly and irresistibly into Jack Sparrow's quivering arsehole, had spread and widened in such a way -- encouraged, perhaps, by the sight of Sparrow's hard cock, its shape quite clear beneath the cloth of his breeches -- that Jack was mortally keen to be filled.

"No, no, Mr Shaftoe," Sparrow was saying now. "I've something _else_ for you."

Jack's Credential throbbed at the thought. "Aye, Captain," he said guilelessly; then, leaning forward quickly and pulling Sparrow t'wards him, "but _I_ ain't: so let me use whatever comes to hand, eh?"

Jack Sparrow kissed him back, eagerly and hungrily, moaning into his mouth: Jack decided to take this as assent. He let Sparrow go, and pushed himself back against the head of the cot, Gift in one hand, fumbling with the other for the pot of grease on the shelf above the pillow.

"Clothes off, eh?" he suggested, with a slow smile that promised Sparrow every atom of his attention during the disrobing.

Sparrow shot him a hot, urgent look, and stood up, and began, very slowly, to unfasten the remaining buttons (such fripperies did not last long on their garments, these days) of his weskit.

Now Jack's attention, despite his implicit vow of focus, was divided: for the Gift was smooth, and smelt pleasingly of leather and of some softening tallow, and besides was ridged and curved in a way that was quite unlike, but clearly intended to call to mind, a man's prick. Jack's fingers, slathering it with aromatic salve, lingered over each swell and irregularity as though he were caressing Sparrow's yard.

And yet the reality was there before him, a feast for his eyes, and Jack could not look away: could not tear his gaze from the hard, tanned planes of Jack Sparrow's chest (his shirt having been torn off remarkably quickly, given his leisurely way with the weskit), gold glinting at one peaked nipple and scars and tattoos decorating the canvas of his skin. Could hardly breathe as Sparrow's hand dipped under the waistband of his breeches, following the line of dark hair down (Jack's breath hitched) to that substantial swelling. He licked his lips as Sparrow popped open the buttons, and wiggled his hips, and let the garment fall; and stood there, naked, erect, enough to make the blood in Jack's veins crash to a halt.

Sparrow was staring at the Gift with obvious fascination. Jack'd hardly looked at it, even while haggling with the crone -- he was sure he'd paid ten times what her other customers (whores and concubines, no doubt, and other light-skirted females) were charged -- over a suitable price. It was, now he came to think of it, perhaps a little larger than Sparrow's own living flesh (Jack swallowed at the thought), perhaps a little wider, perhaps --

"I can't help but notice, Mr Shaftoe," murmured Sparrow, "that you're still in a state of Dress." He cocked an eyebrow, evidently quite aware of the picture he presented. "Don't s'pose you'd like a hand with that, eh?"

"Not yet," said Jack thickly, unwilling to give up a single moment of this suspense to such mundanities as undressing. He was in a giddy, reckless state; thumb caressing the swelling curve of the Gift's tip, eyes fixed immovably on the satiny skin and gilded glimmer of Jack Sparrow before him, lips just parted, tongue tracing the full curve of his mouth, eyes half-closed.

Jack exhaled slowly, trying to marshal his thoughts; or, failing that, to light on _one_ strategy to follow.

"C'mere," he managed, tongue as thick and heavy as his half-prick. And in the space of a single heartbeat Sparrow was up close to Jack, bending to kiss, his hand snaking around Jack's neck, his other hand --

" _Oh_ no," he admonished, catching Sparrow's slender wrist in his hand. "It's just for you, Jack."

Jack Sparrow let his hand lie limp in Jack's, and sighed theatrickally. "Just thought you might be in need of a little _guidance_ , mate," he said, leering. "All very well in theory, these things, but --"

Jack kissed him again, enjoying the slow petulant writhe of Sparrow's tongue, and the stretch of his mouth against Jack's as, even kissing, he smirked. Jack ran his free hand down Sparrow's scarry back, over the kinder ridges of his ribs, down and over the perfect rounding of that taut arse; he let his fingers trace the crease of it, and Sparrow shivered against him and tilted his hips invitingly.

Oh, how Jack wanted to tease and torment and tantalise, to prolong it, to stretch it out 'til Jack Sparrow -- all stretched out and spread wide, in Jack's mind's eye, like every dream of lust he'd ever had -- was pleading and moaning and promising the earth! How he longed to make it last, and make Sparrow crave more and more! But the whole experience, it seemed, was like other methods of fucking in at least one vital respect, that being the _urgency_ which now assailed Jack.

He slathered more grease over his hand, and pressed in, one finger first, inside Jack Sparrow, into that hot dark tightness. Sparrow moaned and bit Jack's shoulder -- his fingers busy at the front of Jack's breeches -- and Jack pushed a second slick finger into him, feeling the clench and give of the muscle, imagining that tightness penetrated by this smooth baton of leather-sheathed wood.

His mind was all mazy with thoughts of how Sparrow might be disposed. On his back, perhaps, legs sprawled wide, thrashing on the bed; standing face to the wall, bracing himself against the black bulkhead as Jack slid the Gift up into him; across Jack's lap, or maybe with his mouth ... A small clear part of Jack's mind -- perhaps that same region where the Imp made lair -- marvelled at his own inventiveness, and wondered if Jack Sparrow's nimble mind turned over each and every option, every time he fucked Jack.

 _No wonder he's mad, then_ thought Jack gleefully, giving himself up to improvisation. He wriggled out of the breeches and pulled Sparrow up onto the bed beside him, and Sparrow didn't need to be told: he was on all fours, knees wide, arse high, looking back over his shoulder, all lechery and laughter and a little apprehension. Jack could not help but kiss him again.

He got his arm around Sparrow's waist, and set the head of the Gift against that small, neat, oiled pucker; and paused a moment, just to see Sparrow push back onto it, just to hear his breath hiss, just to _look_ as the muscle resisted, and then did not resist.

Jack's Remnant swelled so fiercely that he was sure he'd shoot before the thing had sunk halfway: a whole new dimension of prematurity, which Jack had no desire to pioneer at this time. He bit his tongue, and worked the hard shaft further in, and could not breathe for watching Jack Sparrow take it. The ring of muscle was red as a rosebud with arousal, and it stretched and slid over each oiled inch, each ridge and bulge. And all the while he was chanting Jack's name, interspersed with requests that, however improbable in fact, were utterly sincere in sentiment: "Oh, Jack, give it to me, you've no notion how I want you, Jack, how I long f'r you, how I've wanted to feel you inside," and so on and so forth 'til Jack was quite dizzy with the racing and crashing of his own blood.

Oh, Christ, Sparrow's arse, with his hand pushing close against it, and (oh, it was hard to be slow) pulling it free in a wicked spiralling twist until 'twas nearly all out, and Sparrow was writhing and spreading his legs wider and demanding its return, and trying to prop himself somehow on one elbow to get a hand to his aching, gleaming cock ...

"On your side," said Jack, struck by an elaboration: he guided Sparrow carefully over to lie on the bed, weight on hip and shoulder, Gift half-in so that Jack had to brace it there while he leaned up and kissed Sparrow again, all frenzied and panting and feverish now, kissing Jack back and twisting, curving, writhing against the hardness that impaled him. "Jack, Jack," he was saying, "let me taste you, oh please, I need you in my mouth, Jack, let me ..."

But Jack (since _he_ was not having his innermost sensitivities plied with wood and leather) was one step ahead, and he wriggled back down the bed -- Remnant rubbing eagerly against the crumpled, dirty sheets -- and got his mouth on Jack Sparrow's hard, quivering cock before the pirate's hand could close about it.

Sparrow braced his free leg around Jack's shoulders, holding him in place, pulling him closer. Jack resisted, a little, for the sight of his own hand curved 'round the broad wooden base of the Gift, the sight of the smooth, oil-splotched leather going into and out of Jack Sparrow's body all fast and slow and fast again, was exerting a powerful fascination on many disparate parts of his own anatomy. He sucked, and licked, and swirled his tongue around Sparrow's cock, and delighted in the way Sparrow thrust forward as if to fuck his mouth, and then retreated as his arse sought more fulfilment. And the noise! (Later, Jack would wonder with numb dismay whether the crew of the _Black Pearl_ had imagined that it was _Jack Shaftoe_ begging and pleading and entreating and cajoling like that. But that misgiving would only come much, much later.)

Sparrow's leg nudged further over Jack's back, and Jack heard his hip pop and creak as he spread his legs yet wider. His cock slid smooth and huge down past the back of Jack's tongue with each thrust now, and Jack's fingers, grasping the base of the Gift -- all slippery now with sweat as well as oil -- touched Sparrow's arse at every push.

"Oh Christ," Jack Sparrow was saying, "oh Christ Jack let me suck you lick y-- oh _fuck_ , Jack, do that again, that -- oh let me tongue you taste you, let me, oh let me." Jack was having none of that; one touch of Sparrow's mouth on him and he'd spend and drown in it, and likely never come up again, and he had to hold on, needed to hold on, had no desire in life but to watch Jack Sparrow come from being fucked, albeit at one remove. And oh how bitter that it weren't his own flesh pushing hard inside Jack Sparrow! But this was the best he could do: and it wasn't any wise bad.

He drew back, the tip of Sparrow's cock against his lips, and cast a glance up the length of Sparrow's shining, twisting body. Jack Sparrow, fucked, was a fallen angel, a being of such debauched dishevelled brilliant beauty that Jack wondered for a moment whether he might not come simply from the sight of him. And Sparrow looked, now, past speech; gasping like a drowning man, head back, whole body arched in a delicious curve ...

Jack pushed, and swallowed, and tried very hard not to grind himself against the bed as Jack Sparrow yelled out loud (too base a shout to be their name) and clenched impossibly more 'round the Gift, and poured himself deep into Jack's throat.

A moment of silence: or, not silence, but Sparrow's gasps and the heaviness of Jack's own breath, as measured as he could make it as he fought down -- just for a moment -- the savage animal lust that rose in him and demanded that same bliss, that same elevation to heaven's edge.

Jack shoved himself back up the bed. Jack Sparrow was kissing him hot and sloppy and quick, wincing a little as he tried to sit up and the dildo shifted within him. Jack drew it free carefully, and was instantly borne down by Jack Sparrow, still pulsing and pounding with excitement, his hands removing Jack's shirt (for good, from the sound of it), his mouth all over Jack, mouth nipples navel half-a-cock: Jack arched up, but met only air, and growled his displeasure at that.

"I know _exactly_ what you need, Jack Shaftoe," said Sparrow, low and guttural next to his ear. For a split second Jack did not comprehend; then there was a long minute when he felt the fresh-oiled nudge at his arse, with Sparrow bending and pulling and laying him out, and wanted to protest, but then all sudden oh Jack oh God oh it's oooh ...

Christ, but it was still warm under the cool salve: _Sparrow-warm_ , thought Jack, and groaned, and grinned to show it wasn't hurt that he was feeling. Oh, the push of it -- big enough to stretch him, to hurt a little after all but oh such bright and shiny hurt, in so teasing deep, and Sparrow-mouth and -warmth and -kiss, and Jack knew he'd never never never last: and did not.

Jack Sparrow said nothing, and this was such a novelty that Jack stayed silent too. Usually after they'd fucked he'd be chatty and cheerful and full of nonsense: that, or straight asleep, snoring gently into Jack's neck before Jack's blood had finished racing around his body. Now, now, he lay open-eyed, looking straight at Jack: and Jack met his gaze.

"That's what I like about you, Jack," said Sparrow.

"My eye for a bargain?"

"Your ingenuity," said Sparrow. "Full of surprises, you are. How long've you been thinking of that?"

"Oooh, ever since Southwark," said Jack, straight-faced. "Hate to be in any man's debt, me." But Sparrow's expression was priceless, and Jack could not keep his voice steady. He burst out laughing, and Sparrow, grinning, curled closer and kissed him, quick and light.

"You wait, mate," he said. "You just wait."

"Wouldn't want to rush you," said Jack, writhing happily against Sparrow.

"So, then," said Sparrow, propping himself on Jack's chest, close enough that Jack's eyes crossed meeting his gaze.

"So?"

"What'd I do to deserve _that_ , eh? That ... Gift?"

Jack thought, first, to make a jest of it: but would this moment, so close and still and open, come again?

"You deserve everything, Jack," he said. "Everything. I'd give you the world, if I could, and every bright shining thing in it, all for your own."

"That's a charming sentiment, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow, "but I've no need of any of it."

Jack opened his mouth to object to this cavalier dismissal of his heart, but was distracted by the taste of himself on Jack Sparrow's fingers as Sparrow hushed him.

"No need, Jack," Sparrow was saying, and his gaze was luminous and warm. "No need, my love, for I've everything I want here between my two hands. Here ... an' here ... an' here ..."

One hand, now, curving 'round Jack's skull; one hand there above his heart; Jack Sparrow's mouth descending to kiss him; Jack Sparrow's words hanging there around the two of them in a lambent golden cloud.

"Best present you ever gave me, Jack," murmured Sparrow, his lips brushing Jack's, "your own sweet self."

"Best present you ever _stole_ , as I recall," objected Jack: but he could not rouse himself to any strenuous indignation, not with Jack Sparrow so near, so ... well ... _giving_. "Made off with me like a thief in the night."

"Oh, I _took_ you, all right," said Sparrow, sliding his hand down over Jack's ribs, down to his hip, pushing his hand 'tween Jack's skin and the sheet. "An' I sh'll take you again, an you give yourself to me."

"Promises, promises," said Jack, winding his arms 'round Sparrow's muscly waist and pressing him close, feeling Sparrow's cock twitch against his own. Oh, never enough. "But you're mine: ain't that so?"

"Aye, love," said Sparrow, his voice all low and growly with lust and laughter both, his fingers exploring the contours of Jack's arse. "Yours."

"Why then," said Jack, giving himself happily to the moment, the evening, the bright future and all the days and nights it held, "'tis fair exchange."

-end-

Oh, and that riddly-diddly-fiddly song that the Imp loves? 'Tis **Literature** , dear reader. Study it [here](http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/dildo.html).  



End file.
